Adventure, January 20, 1922 — page 160: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

158 “T—JT reckon we'll need considerable,” smiled Blaze. ‘It looks kinda stormy.” “Our horses are over in the coulée,” ex- plained one of the men, and without further conversation they filed away in the dark, while Frenchy and Blaze rode back to the blazing lights of Wolf Butte, where they stabled their horses and went straight to the sheriff’s office. The door was unlocked. Inside they found two small cots and sev- eral blankets. Blaze barred the door and they went to bed. The street echoed with galloping hoofs, the shouts of drunken men and wo- men. From the dance-halls came the rau- cous notes of an orchestra as Wolf Butte danced. Blaze stared up at the dark ceil- ing of the office and wondered why he did not want to join the revelry; wondered why the green cloth had no attraction for him now. From Frenchy’s cot came a stentorian snore. The new sheriff was doing no un- necessary worrying over the morrow. Blaze grinned and stretched his full length. Men had shaken his hand and expressed con- fidence in him—honest men. He was no longer Blaze Carlin, gambler; he was Blaze Carlin, the right arm of the law. He flexed his supple fingers and wondered how long the arm of the law would last. At least, it would start reaching. m@ WOLF BUTTE was a different “17. place in the light of the morning sun. Few men were on the street. Swampers sluiced out the saloons and gambling-houses,. sweeping out stacks of torn and stained playing-cards; cleaning up for the day and night to come. Freight- ers’ wagons, with red-eyed, cursing driv- ers, creaked away from the stores, headed back to the source of supplies. Men were packing a bunch of horses in front of a store. A hatless, disheveled per- son staggered out of a saloon and started across the street. He stopped and looked up at the sky, as if amazed that it should be morning. Perhaps he was ashamed to be seen in the full light of day for he stag- gered back from whence he came. There was no breeze and the passing of hoof and wheel left a film of alkali dust in the air; a film through which the heat waves began to dance a devil’s jig. Wolf Butte awoke slowly—painfully. It was useless to try to sleep in that heat. Adventure Men began to drift from the overcrowded hotels to the saloons. Men rolled out of their blankets at the feed corrals. The loft of the livery-stable furnished lodging for those unable to secure a bed. The bare ground furnished lodging for those who were unable to secure rooms, or were physi- cally unable to reach loft, hotel or feed corral. Dry of throat, bloodshot of eye and si- lent of voice, they headed for the oases of the town where, after a few crooks of the elbow, they would revive in spirit. Break- fast might or might not be forgotten. It was all according to the degree of thirst and the amount of liquid refreshments taken aboard before the pangs of hunger had a chance to manifest itself. Blaze and Frenchy were the first ones at breakfast. A frowsy waiter, with one side of his face purpled from temple to nostril and a smear of blood on his collar, took their order. He mumbled something about a big time last night, but Blaze and Frenchy gave him no heed. Two men came in and sat down near them. One of them was explaining that his partner had been too drunk to see. “T tell yuh that Chuck Sales would ’a’ nailed Mex Free jist like that.” The speaker snapped his fingers. ‘“‘Jist like that, but-he seen that Mex had a busted arm. Chuck and Mex had a argument to settle. Seems that Mex comes in to have Doc Brenton fix up his arm, but doc’s full of morphine and ain’t worth a to fix nothin’.”’ “Mex would git Sales if he wasn’t hurt,” argued the other. “I'd like to know who got Mex. Must ’a’ been a accident, ’cause Mex is fast as a rattlesnake. He ain’t Mora’s right-hand man for nothin’. Some- body told Chuck that Mora’s ranch-house burned down, and of course Chuck had to make a fool remark about the vigilantes. I sure’ looked for some of Mora’s gang to git Chuck. Chuck’s always talkin’ funny.” “What’s Chuck got against Mora?” asked the other. ‘Jealous, I reckon. Chuck Sales don’t want nobody he can’t boss and Mora won’t have nobody he can’t boss; so it—say, him and Mora’d make a good fight.” “Chuck would whip him.” The man spoke with conviction, but the other laughed scornfully. “Whip him? Mora’s big enough to tie Chuck in a hard knot. COMIC LOO <S If Mora ever got — (C@